High in the Rocky Mountains, there’s a vast landscape where the wind sighs over rock and heather. The trees struggle up the steep ridges and end in mats and twisted bonsais. The fingerprint of the glaciers is fresh, and life grows slowly in patient forms over the glacial rubble. 

In British Columbia’s Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park, it’s possible to feel the quiet pulse of this expansive landscape. The mountains rise high and steep above Kootenay Lake, a spectacular basin excavated by glaciers where the waters rest before they flow into the Columbia River. And although I had never been here before I spent five days in these mountains in September 2023, the waters had already connected my life with the park. Three hours south on the wings of an eagle, the Kootenai River cuts and winds through Idaho, past the cedar forests and pileated woodpeckers of my birthplace, before it empties into Kootenay Lake. The waters connect us all.

Fall in Kokanee Glacier Park

During the winter, Kokanee Glacier Park is covered with a deep blanket of snow. The plants rest dormant under insulating snow drifts while backcountry skiers glide across the powdery slopes. But in early September, it’s a place where huckleberry bushes blaze with burgundy leaves and offer up their last juicy berries. Summer turns sour as early frosts bite the fireweed leaves, and birds hurry their migration away from the approaching winter. The scarlet red and pumpkin orange fruits of the mountain-ashes contrast with the deep green needles of the subalpine firs. 

This place has stories to tell us. Here are a few of them: a collage from my five September days in the park.

An American dipper along the stream

As the morning sun touches Kaslo Lake, light wisps of mist rise up from the calm surface—an ephemeral curtain in the cool morning air. Nearly 200 meters higher, along a mossy stream where frothy white water cascades over the granite backbone of the Canadian Rockies, an American dipper is spending the morning. Bobbing her body and doing knee bends, she forages leisurely for invertebrates among the mosses. And then, half walking, half swimming, she moves into the sunlight above the cascade and preens. 

The cool morning air carries the calm, resinous scent of the subalpine firs to me. The mountains are breathing. One of the dipper’s gray contour feathers tumbles down the cascade and circles calmly in the pool below. I’m perched uncomfortably next to it, sitting on unyielding rocks. Step by unhurried step, the dipper picks her way upstream, a cheerful gray shadow disappearing back into this world where caddisflies and mosses join water and stone.

A profusion of mountain-ashes near Tanal Lake

It’s noticeably later in the morning when the sun reaches the subalpine firs and cone-heavy spruces along the edge of Tanal Lake, set deep in a north-facing cirque basin. The pine grosbeaks are giving a quavery commentary from the treetops. The avalanche chute behind the lake is still chilly in the shade, but a mixed flock of songbirds is getting breakfast in the mountain-ashes. These striking shrubs clothe the slope, their limber, arched branches supporting a heavy orange crop of fall fruits. The chestnut-backed chickadees are partaking, nibbling small mouthfuls out of the fruits between bouts of foliage-hunting for insects. 

The ruby-crowned kinglets and Wilson’s warblers that accompany the chickadees don’t seem interested in fruits. Instead, they’re focused entirely on the leaves and branches, hunting late-season insects. Half a dozen golden-crowned kinglets are also moving with the flock, but they stay exclusively in the evergreen foliage of the subalpine firs nearby. Maybe they’re gleaning spiders. I watch as a pine grosbeak glides down from the treetops to eat the bitter orange mountain-ash fruits.

Raptors along the ridges

I keep turning an eye to the small ridge west of Kaslo Lake, where steeples of subalpine fir and Engelmann spruce grow up from the jumble of glacier-gouged granite. Fall raptor migration is underway—and this ridge is in a perfect position for migrating birds of prey. It’s located near the head of two major drainages that slope up from the northwest and northeast, Keen Creek and Enterprise Creek. Its south slope catches the early morning sun, creating plumes of warm air—thermals—which raptors can use like elevators to gain altitude.

Sharp-shinned hawks, those small, nimble hunters of songbirds, skim the treetops and pause to chase their prey. The red-tailed hawks often pass higher, gliding and circling majestically, a hundred meters or more above the ridge. Almost all of them approach from the northeast and follow along the curve of the ridge west, then continue southwards past Kaslo Lake. The pattern is consistent enough that I can be sure: these birds are in the midst of their fall migration, one trickle among the outpouring of the boreal summer’s raptors, strategically fleeing the inevitable approach of winter. 

Finches, spruces, and hawks

The sharp-shinned hawks have been finding plenty of songbirds to hunt. The seed-eating finches are widespread this fall: pine siskins by the dozens, small musical groups of pine grosbeaks, and occasional flyovers of evening grosbeaks. From time to time, I see the siskins feeding in the subalpine firs. The firs’ early-ripening cones are already far along in their yearly disintegration process, falling apart scale by scale, dispersing all of the winged seeds that the birds don’t get first. The spruces still hold their cones in cheery, drooping tan arrays.

As the day warms up, the migrating raptors become more flexible in their behavior. At times the red-tailed hawks, too, skim low over the ridge, necks craned over the boulder fields where the pikas mew. Perhaps the red-tails, too, are searching for a meal. 

Raptors and pikas in Kokanee Glacier

The raptors seem to travel in groups. Often I’ll spot a red-tailed hawk, only to raise my binoculars and see two tiny sharp-shinned hawks higher in the air. At one point, I see a golden eagle circling east of the ridge. This massive, steady soarer has an incredible vantage point, peering down at Kaslo Lake 200 meters below. As she spirals, she has sweeping vistas of the jagged, glacier-carved ridges to her east. A red-tailed hawk is harassing her, tucking wings and stooping at the much larger eagle, then rolling upwards again in a lazy dance. Three more red-tails are nothing more than specks higher up on the thermal, circling as the sunny air lifts them higher. Soon all three are coasting southwest along the ridge in a tight squadron. The pikas keep mewing below, on the lookout for danger as they cut plants for winter hay.

The quiet landscape of Kokanee Glacier

As the planet spins towards afternoon, the landscape is quiet near the headwalls of the cirques. The wind whispers through gnarled alpine larches and matted subalpine firs. A textured green carpet of sedges and heather cloaks the raw, jumbled bulk of glacier-carved ridges. I think of the other glacial landscapes in my family lineage: Norway, Sweden, Scotland. The raptors have stopped passing now—or perhaps they’re using other ridges, or they’re so high that I can no longer see them. I’m alone except for the bleating of the pikas, the sighing of the wind, and a million silent plants clinging to the rocks.

One afternoon, as I’m hiking with my friends among a bouldery expanse of pika country, a weasel pops out from the rocks to investigate us. Curious with a prudent touch of caution, she scampers towards us, then darts back under a boulder. A few seconds later, she reappears, continuing this ballet of explore and hide for several minutes. Farther down the trail, we see a second weasel, bouncing easily over the rocks in his fluid search for dinner. It’s beautiful to watch—unless you’re the pika or chipmunk that’s at risk of becoming dinner.

The fall’s final flowers

The journey of water across this landscape begins in the winter, as deep snows cover the high mountains. By now, the wintry blanket has melted entirely, much of it seeping into the earth. Now, from this groundwater supply, a mossy brooklet emerges from a high basin among the rocks. The long-ago winter snows burble towards the Pacific Ocean, 2,200 meters below and over 1,400 kilometers downstream. Along the brooklet, a pink monkeyflower is showing its last bloom, a magenta farewell to summer among hundreds of ripening seed capsules. 

Here and there, the heathers are still flowering, too, nodding urns of pink and white held a few centimeters above the rocks. Meanwhile, on the ridge where the raptors are migrating, the alpine larches are beginning their flaming goodbye to the warmth, taking on the first hints of brilliant gold. Soon they’ll drop their needles, becoming stark and bare in preparation for winter.

Wind, water, and connection

Farther down the brook near a cascade, a flock of American pipits flushes from the rocks as I stop to admire a sunny group of arnica seedheads. Half of them have already transformed into tawny parachutes, which will carry the seeds on the wind. 

This brook flows constantly onwards through glacial lakes and tumbling cascades, into Kootenay Lake, where the waters unite and continue flowing, into the Columbia River and towards the ocean. The river weaves back and forth across the border between countries, like my life, like so many lives. The golden eagles and sharp-shinned hawks follow the wind and the sun southwards away from winter, as they have for generations. The river connects us; the wind connects us. And the larches, heathers, and subalpine firs show us what it means to be rooted, to grow patiently and quietly among a jumble of stone. Next fall, they’ll still be here, waiting to share their wisdom with us.

The post A naturalist journey through Kokanee Glacier Park appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Alto en las Montañas Rocosas existe un paisaje vasto donde el viento suspira por piedras y brezos. Los árboles se esfuerzan para alcanzar las cimas y terminan en cojines y bonsáis torcidos. Las huellas de los glaciares son recientes. La vida crece en formas pacientes sobre los escombros glaciares.

En el Parque Provincial Kokanee Glacier de la Columbia Británica, es posible sentir el pulso silencioso de este paisaje extenso. Las montañas se levantan empinadas y altas sobre el Lago Kootenay, una cuenca espectacular excavada por los glaciares, donde las aguas descansan antes de verterse en el Río Columbia. Y aunque yo nunca había estado aquí antes de pasar cinco días en estas montañas en septiembre de 2023, las aguas ya habían conectado mi vida con el parque. Tres horas al sur sobre las alas de un águila, el Río Kootenai atraviesa el Estado de Idaho en curvas y cañones, pasando por los bosques de tuya gigante (Thuja plicata) donde los picamaderos americanos (Dryocopus pileatus) habitan y donde yo nací. Luego, este río se derrama en el Lago Kootenay. Las aguas nos conectan a todos.

El otoño en el Parque Kokanee Glacier

Durante el invierno, el Parque Kokanee Glacier está cubierto con una manta profunda de nieve. Las plantas se quedan dormidas bajo el ventisquero aislante mientras esquiadores se deslizan por las laderas. Pero al comienzo de septiembre, es un lugar donde los arándanos silvestres (Vaccinium spp.) brillan con hojas borgoñas y brindan sus últimas bayas jugosas. El verano se vuelve agrio mientras las primeras heladas muerdan las hojas de la adelfilla (Chamerion angustifolium). Las aves se apresuran a migrar, huyendo del inminente invierno. Las frutas escarlatas y anaranjadas de los serbales (Sorbus spp.) contrastan con las agujas de verde profundo de los abetos alpinos (Abies lasiocarpa). 

Este lugar tiene historias para contarnos. Aquí están unas de ellas: un collage de mis cinco días otoñales en el parque.

Un mirlo acuático norteamericano en el riachuelo

Mientras el sol matutino toca el Lago Kaslo, hilos ligeros de neblina ascienden desde la superficie tranquila. Forman una cortina efímera en el aire frío de la mañana. Casi 200 metros más alto, cerca de un riachuelo musgoso donde agua blanca espumosa cae en cascada sobre la espina dorsal granítica de las Montañas Rocasas, un mirlo acuático norteamericano (Cinclus mexicanus) está pasando la mañana. Se agacha y se mece, forrajeando sin prisa, buscando invertebrados entre los musgos. Luego se mueve hacia la luz del sol sobre la cascada, medio caminando y medio nadando, y ahí se acicala.

El aire fresco de la mañana me lleva el aroma tranquilo y resinoso de los abetos alpinos. Las montañas están respirando. Una plumita del mirlo acuático sale flotando por la cascada y gira serenamente en el estanque natural debajo. Estoy sentado cerca, un poco incómodamente, sobre las rocas inflexibles. El mirlo acuático continúa forrajeando aguas arriba, paso a pausado paso, una alegre sombra gris. Entonces desaparece otra vez en este mundo donde los tricópteros y musgos se unen con el agua y las piedras.

Una profusión de serbales cerca del Lago Tanal

Es obviamente más tarde en la mañana cuando el sol alcanza los abetos alpinos y las píceas repletas de conos al lado del Lago Tanal. El lago se ubica dentro de un profundo circo glaciar orientado al norte. Los camachuelos picogruesos (Pinicola enucleator) están dando un comentario tembloroso desde las copas de los árboles. El claro inclinado detrás del lago, donde el recorrido de una avalancha dejó su evidencia, aún está en la sombra de la montaña—y aquí hace frío. Sin embargo, una bandada mixta de aves cantoras está desayunando en los serbales aquí. Estos arbustos llamativos visten la ladera. Sus ramas curvadas y cimbreñas están cargando una cosecha abundante de frutas anaranjadas. Los carboneros dorsicastaños (Poecile rufescens) están alimentándose, mordisqueando frutas entre episodios de cazar insectos en el follaje.

No parece que les interesen las frutas a los reyezuelos matraquita (Corthylio calendula) y chipes corona negra (Cardellina pusilla) que acompañan a los carboneros. Estas especies se enfocan en las hojas y las ramas, cazando los últimos insectos de la estación templada. Media docena de reyezuelos corona amarilla (Regulus satrapa) también acompañan a la bandada. Estas aves, sin embargo, se mantienen exclusivamente en el follaje conífero de los abetos alpinos cercanos. Tal vez están cazando arañas. Miro un camachuelo picogrueso mientras planea desde la copa de un árbol para comer las frutas agrias del serbal.

Aves rapaces volando sobre las crestas

La pequeña cresta rocosa al oeste del Lago Kaslo llama mi atención. Ahí las torres de los abetos alpinos y de las píceas de Engelmann (Picea engelmannii) emergen desde un revoltijo de granito, rasgado por los glaciares. La migración otoñal de las aves rapaces ya está en progreso—y esta cresta se encuentra en una posición perfecta para las aves de presa migratorias. Está ubicada cerca de las cabeceras de dos cuencas notables que descienden hacia el noroeste y el noreste, el Arroyo Keen y el Arroyo Enterprise. Estas cuencas forman valles que las aves rapaces pueden seguir. Y cuando la luz solar de la mañana toca la ladera sureña de esta cresta, crea columnas de aire caliente: las térmicas. Las aves rapaces que lleguen aquí pueden usarlas como ascensores para subir en el cielo.

Los gavilanes pecho canela (Accipiter striatus), aquellos pequeños, ágiles cazadores de aves cantoras, rozan las copas de los árboles y pausan para perseguir su presa. Las aguilillas cola roja (Buteo jamaicensis) a menudo sobrevuelan más alto, planeando y dando vueltas majestuosamente, cien metros o más sobre la cresta. Parece que casi todos están acercándose desde el noreste y siguiendo la curva de la cresta al oeste. Luego continúan hacia el sur, más allá del Lago Kaslo. El patrón es suficientemente consistente para estar seguro: estas aves están en plena migración otoñal, volando para el sur. Los que veo son un goteo visible de la efusión inimaginable de las aves rapaces del verano boreal, estratégicamente huyendo de la llegada inevitable del invierno.

Pinzones, píceas y gavilanes

Los gavilanes pecho canela han estado encontrando muchas aves cantoras para cazar: los pinzones que comen semillas son comunes este otoño. Hay docenas de jilgueritos pineros (Spinus pinus) y grupos pequeños y musicales de camachuelos picogruesos. A veces sobrevuelan unos picogruesos norteños (Coccothraustes vespertinus). De vez en cuando, veo los jilgueritos pineros alimentándose en los abetos alpinos. Los conos de los abetos maduran temprano y ya están adelantados en el proceso anual de desintegración. Se desarman escama por escama, dispersando todas las semillas aladas que las aves no consigan comer. Mientras tanto, las píceas aún guardan sus conos en alegres marrones conjuntos pendientes.

Mientras el día se pone más caliente, las aves rapaces migrantes se vuelven más flexibles en su comportamiento. A veces las aguilillas cola roja vuelan más bajo sobre la cresta, sus cuellos estirados sobre los canchales donde maúllan las ochotonas. Estas aguilillas suelen cazar mamíferos: parece que ellas están buscando alimento también. 

Las aves rapaces y las ochotonas del Parque Kokanee Glacier

Parece que las aves rapaces viajan en grupos. Cuando veo a una aguililla cola roja, al levantar mis binoculares es común detectar a unos minúsculos gavilanes pecho canela más alto sobre una térmica. En algún momento, diviso a un águila real (Aquila chrysaetos) dando vueltas al este de la cresta. Esta enorme ave planeadora tiene un punto de observación increíble, mirando hacia el Lago Kaslo 200 metros abajo. Mientras hace espirales, tiene vistas extensas hacia las escarpadas crestas al este, esculpidas por los glaciares. Una aguililla cola roja está molestándola. Dobla sus alas y cae hacia la gran águila. Luego, sube hacia arriba otra vez para volver a perseguirla en una danza perezosa.

Tres más aguilillas cola roja están más alto por la térmica, dando vueltas mientras el aire soleado las levanta. Parecen ser nada más que motas. Pronto las tres empiezan a deslizarse al suroeste, siguiendo la cresta en un escuadrón estrecho. Las ochotonas siguen maullando abajo, vigilando para peligros mientras cosechan plantas para su provisión invernal de heno.

El paisaje silencioso de Kokanee Glacier

Mientras el planeta gira hacia la tarde, un sentido de silencio domina en el área cerca de los acantilados de los circos glaciares. El viento susurra por los nudosos alerces alpinos (Larix lyallii) y los abetos alpinos en cojín. Una alfombra texturada de cárices y brezos envuelve el crudo volumen revuelto del terreno esculpido por los glaciares. Pienso en otros paisajes glaciares en mi linaje familiar: Noruega, Suecia, Escocia. Las aves rapaces ya han dejado de pasar—o tal vez están pasando por otras crestas, o quizás estén volando tan alto que no las pueda ver. Estoy solo excepto por el balido de las ochotonas, el susurro del viento y un millón de plantas calladas que se aferran a las rocas.

Una tarde, mientras sendereo con mis amigos por una extensión rocosa donde habitan las ochotonas, una comadreja emerge de las rocas para investigarnos. Curiosa con un toque prudente de precaución, ella corre hacia nosotros y luego desaparece bajo una peña. Segundos después, aparece de nuevo. Sigue en este ballet de explorar y esconderse por varios minutos. Luego, más adelante en el sendero, vemos a una segunda comadreja, brincando sobre las rocas en su búsqueda fluida para alimento. Es algo hermoso para mirar—a menos que seas la ochotona o ardilla listada que corre el riesgo de convertirse en su alimento.

Las últimas flores del otoño

El viaje del agua a través de este paisaje empieza en el invierno, cuando la nieve profunda cubre estas montañas altas. Ahora la manta invernal se ha derretido por completo. Mucha humedad se ha filtrado por el suelo y ya emerge lentamente, alimentando un riachuelo musgoso que corre por las rocas altas. La nieve del invierno pasado ya borbotea para el Océano Pacífico, 2.200 metros bajo en altitud y más de 1.400 kilómetros aguas abajo. Al lado del riachuelo, una planta de flor de mono rosada (Mimulus sp.) está mostrando su última flor, una despedida magenta del verano entre cientos de cápsulas de semillas.

Aquí y ahí, los brezos aún florecen también, urnas rosadas y blancas que balancean unos pocos centímetros sobre las rocas. Mientras tanto, en la cresta donde las aves rapaces pasan, los alerces alpinos están comenzando a despedirse del verano ardientemente. Sus acículas están mostrando los primeros matices del color dorado brillante. Pronto las acículas van a caerse mientras los alerces se ponen desnudos en preparación para el invierno.

Viento, agua y conexión

Más aguas abajo por el riachuelo, cerca de una cascada, una bandada de bisbitas norteamericanas (Anthus rubescens) se echa a volar desde las piedras. Me detengo para admirar un grupo soleado de semillas y flores de árnica (Arnica sp.). La mitad ya se ha transformado en los paracaídas leonados que van a dispersar las semillas por el viento.

Este riachuelo fluye adelante por lagunas glaciares y cascadas energéticas hacia el Lago Kootenay. Ahí las aguas se unen y continúan fluyendo, siguiendo el Río Columbia hacia el océano. El río curva y cruza las fronteras entre países, como mi vida, como las vidas de tantas personas. Las águilas reales y los gavilanes pecho canela siguen el viento y el sol hacia el sur, lejos del invierno, como han hecho por muchas generaciones. El río nos conecta; el viento nos conecta. Y los alerces, brezos y abetos alpinos nos muestran qué significa estar enraizado, crecer paciente y silenciosamente entre un revoltijo de rocas. El otoño que viene, aún van a estar aquí, esperando para compartir su sabiduría con nosotros.

The post Un viaje naturalístico por el Parque Provincial Kokanee Glacier appeared first on Wild With Nature.

December 15, 2022

The Swan River slips gently under the snowy bridge where the Cold Creek Road crosses it. A pileated woodpecker flies past, its heavy kakking calls echoing into the distance over the snow-shrouded cottonwoods and Engelmann spruces along the river. In the cottonwoods, we can hear a mixed flock of black-capped chickadees and golden-crowned kinglets, calling busily as they forage. One of the chickadees gives its fee-bee song briefly. It’s a reminder, here in the depths of winter, that spring is coming. By March, the chickadees will be singing much more, staking out their breeding territories.

This morning I’m near Condon, Montana, counting birds with Mary Shaw, an avid wildlife watcher and a board member for the nonprofit Swan Valley Connections. We’re one of a handful of teams conducting the Upper Swan Valley Christmas Bird Count (CBC) today. Like CBCs all over the Americas (primarily North America), the goal is simple: count all the birds we can find in one day within a fixed 15-mile diameter circle. Between December 14 and January 5 each winter, about 2600 CBCs take place across the United States, Canada, and Latin America. 

The first CBCs took place in 1900, and the number of them has been growing ever since. They’re fun community events, but they’re also one of our best sources of long-term data on the populations of North American overwintering birds. Based on CBC data, we can see patterns over the last 50 years – and sometimes farther back -such as the relative stability of overwintering American robin populations, the steady decline in western meadowlarks wintering in the United States, and the northward shift of pine grosbeaks as the climate changes.

A river runs through it

Between the trees, the snow is a few feet deep here in this mostly forested valley. Among the conifers, we can expect to find flocks of chickadees, kinglets, and nuthatches: the usual forest birds. Otherwise, we’re expecting the birds to be clustered in just a few areas today. Here along the river, where the open water provides opportunities for food and shelter, we’re hoping to find some ducks and perhaps an American dipper. The highway can be another surprisingly-attractive spot for winter birds. Roadkills can bring in bald eagles, dozens of ravens, and sometimes golden eagles.

But so far, the river hasn’t been as active as we were hoping. We can see some whitish-yellow branches in the stream, neatly stripped of their bark by the local beavers. But as far as we can see in either direction, neither ducks nor American dippers are visible on the water.

We debate about whether to hike farther along the river. Swan Valley Connections has loaned us snowshoes to navigate the deep snow. And there’s a good chance we might find some mergansers or other ducks somewhere along here.

“Well, I love hiking,” Mary says.

It’s decided.

Birding by snowshoe

We wade through the snow, stumbling occasionally over fallen spruce logs. We stop several times to scan the river, but the water remains birdless. Soon we begin to wander deeper into the forest, attracted by the soft sip calls of a few chickadees.

It’s another flock of black-capped chickadees, at least five of them making these soft contact calls as they glean acrobatically among the spruce needles. In the winter, chickadees hunt for spiders, insect eggs, and larvae. They also feed on fruits, seeds of goldenrods and conifers, and sometimes the fat of animal carcasses. 

By 9:40, we’ve meandered back towards the Swan River. Still no ducks. Mary and I decide to split up. She’ll follow our snowshoe trail through the trees, back toward the bridge. Meanwhile, I’ll bushwhack along the edge of the river, hoping to find some more birds. We’ll meet at the car in just over half an hour.

I make my way along the riverbank, passing a spruce hanging out over the water. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by birds. It’s another mixed winter flock. Golden-crowned kinglets, black-capped chickadees, and mountain chickadees are moving through the spruces. The sips and dees of the black-capped chickadees mix with the softer twitters and whispers of the golden-crowned kinglets. Occasionally a mountain chickadee gives its raspy, sore-throated call.

Chickadee identification

Black-capped and mountain chickadees are our two most common species of chickadees in Montana. In the wetter forests towards Idaho, it’s also possible to find the gorgeous chestnut-backed chickadees. But according to Eli Estey, the leader of this CBC, chestnut-backed chickadees are very rare here in the Swan Valley. 

Black-capped and mountain chickadees are easy to tell apart. Mountain chickadees give notably raspier calls, sounding as if a black-capped chickadee has a very sore throat. These birds also have a white line running through their black cap, just above the eye. The top of a black-capped chickadee’s head, on the other hand, is all-black. Black-capped chickadees give the familiar chickadee-dee-dee call, without the raspiness of the mountain chickadees.

The mixed flock fades away as unexpectedly as it came. Flocks like this are a common winter sight in the conifer forest. But that doesn’t make them any less magical.

Mary and I arrive back at the bridge at almost the same time. We still haven’t seen any ducks. But now, a belted kingfisher is perching in a cottonwood over the water, scanning for fish! The extra time along the river has been worthwhile.

Willows, ponderosa pines, and nuthatches

Our first stop of the day is done. Now we drive across the highway and walk a stretch of a snowy road through an extensive complex of beaver wetlands near Condon Creek. The wetlands are almost entirely frozen. 

A light breeze is picking up now, brushing past the willow thickets and cattail stands. It’s entirely quiet except for the occasional croak of a distant raven and the construction noises from a house along the road. I’m almost positive there must be some song sparrows hiding in these willows. But as we walk along, the quiet prevails. These common, hardy sparrows aren’t showing themselves today.

Soft gray clouds hang low over the valley as we stop near Condon Creek itself. We don’t see any song sparrows here, either, though a trickle of open water gurgles under the bridge. But right along the road, we hear a nasal yank call. We spot two red-breasted nuthatches, twittering softly as they inch down a small ponderosa pine trunk. They’re just feet away from us, so close that I can see one of them removing seeds from the bark of the pine. 

What are these seeds doing here, anyhow? How did they make their way from the cones overhead to the bark of this trunk? It turns out that, like their cousins the pygmy nuthatches, red-breasted nuthatches are well-known for caching food items. Some researchers suspect that these birds focus on caching food early in the day, retrieving many of these hidden food items later in the afternoon to build up fat for the cold winter nights.

Back to the river

So far today, we’ve seen or heard 13 species of birds. It’s a remarkable contrast from the summer landscape. In June, we’d be hearing dozens and dozens of species in these trees and around these wetlands. But in spite of the quiet, there’s still something lovely about being out in the winter forest. And the sparse birds only serve to make each encounter more special and to highlight the special places where we find them.

“I just want to keep doing this all day!” Mary tells me. “Even though there aren’t very many birds, this is fun.”

But by now it’s 10:45, and we’ve agreed to meet back up with the other birders at noon to compare notes. We decide we still have time to drive a few miles north to the Salmon Prairie bridge, where we’ll be able to check another stretch of the Swan River.

There aren’t ducks here, either. But an adult bald eagle is perching in a cottonwood. I can hear another mixed flock of songbirds moving through the western larches behind us. There are a few mountain chickadees, some more golden-crowned kinglets, and a couple of red-breasted nuthatches. Then a hairy woodpecker flies past, giving its sharp peek! call.

As we’re driving back toward the highway, Mary spots a lone wild turkey walking methodically across a pasture. She tells me that she sees them commonly in this area.

A dipper in the current

We have just a few minutes remaining before we need to head back to Condon for our noon meeting. On our way, we decide to check the Cold Creek Road bridge one more time. It turns out to be an excellent idea.

The belted kingfisher we saw here before is gone. But in its place, a compact gray bird is bobbing rhythmically at the icy edge of the river. It’s an American dipper! The dipper plunges elegantly from the ice into an eddy. It swims low in the water, like a muskrat, a purposeful gray bird leaving a gently spreading wake.

The dipper flies across the river in front us, giving its tough, wiry call inches above the ripples. It lands on the snowy bank, bobbing once again, then leaps back into flight. This time, it lands in the main current and rides the river downstream, spinning in circles like a phalarope. And, playful though it seems to be, this dipper’s movements have purpose, too. As it drifts down the current, I watch it snap up what appears to be a caddisfly larva.

Comparing notes

We meet up back at the Swan Valley Connections interpretive center in Condon. We’re joined by Amber Langley, who birded an area near Loon Lake and Hemlock Point by cross-country ski this morning, and CBC compiler Eli Estey, who covered some areas south of us near Falls Creek Road. Compared to CBCs that take place in more populous areas, which can sometimes involve a hundred or more participants, this one is a tiny affair. It’s just the four of us covering what we can of the count circle, plus several observers who are counting the birds around their homes today. 

Like us, Amber and Eli have had quiet mornings. The most common birds have been ravens, chickadees, and golden-crowned kinglets – the familiar standbys of winter in the conifer forest. We discuss the birds we haven’t seen today. None of us have seen the winter finches – red crossbills and pine siskins – that we might hope to find in this forested valley. These finches are notoriously mobile, following good crops of conifer seeds from region to region. Nor have we found any common redpolls, northern finches that feed on birch and alder seeds during the winter. Why?

From the Swan Valley to the boreal forest

In the case of the crossbills and pine siskins, at least, there seems to be a straightforward explanation. According to the Finch Research Network, there is a bumper crop of spruce cones north of us this year. Spruces in northern British Columbia and the Northwest Territories are loaded with cones. Presumably, they’re also loaded with winter finches. Meanwhile, in the Swan Valley, the finches are sparse or absent.

This year-to-year variability in winter finches serves to highlight the importance of CBCs like this one. Changes in bird populations are often much more complicated than just simple declines or increases. And to study changes in creatures that can move thousands of miles, it takes an effort like this, something that is geographically extensive and long-lasting.

It’s been a typical winter day in the conifer forest of the Swan Valley: a deep, snowy quiet punctuated by the sudden appearances of mixed-species flocks of chickadees and kinglets. A belted kingfisher, a bald eagle, and an American dipper have reminded us of the bird diversity that the river hosts, even in the middle of winter. The absence of winter finches here has connected us to observations of heavy spruce cone crops 1500 miles away. We’ve waded through deep snow, seen red-breasted nuthatches retrieving seeds, and made some new friends. And we’ve added a few more observations to over a century of data on how North America’s wintering birds are faring. 

Additional reading

Ghalambor, C.K. & T.E. Martin (2020). Red-breasted nuthatch (Sitta canadensis). In Birds of the World Online (P.G. Rodewald & F.B. Gill, editors). Ithaca, NY: Cornell Lab of Ornithology. https://birdsoftheworld.org/

Grubb, T.C., Jr., & T.A. Waite. (1987). Caching by red-breasted nuthatches. Wilson Bulletin 99(4):696-699. Retrieved from https://sora.unm.edu/sites/default/files/journals/wilson/v099n04/p0696-p0699.pdf

Hoar, T. (2022). Winter finch forecast 2022-2023. Finch Research Network. Retrieved from https://finchnetwork.org/winter-finch-forecast-2022-2023

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November 17, 2022

It’s a cold, sunny morning in the parking lot of Missoula’s Greenough Park. There are eight of us gathered here, carrying binoculars or magnifying glasses. We’re here for the Montana Natural History Center’s monthly naturalist saunter. Our goals for the morning are simple: be curious, observe, and get to know some of the stories of this place.

It snowed lightly last night. Now the thermometer at the airport reads 23°F, but it’s probably colder here, in the narrow valley of Rattlesnake Creek. 

I was in a hurry this morning, and now I’m mentally kicking myself for arriving so unprepared. I ran out of time to put my boots on. Instead I’m wearing a pair of worn-out hiking shoes and just two light coats. The only camera I have with me is my phone. My gloves are lightweight and slightly damp from the day before. But if a song sparrow can survive a whole winter out here with nothing but its feathers, I can probably be out here underprepared for an hour or two.

Naturalist Ser Anderson is leading this morning’s saunter. It’s is an opportunity for us all to get to know the winter landscape better. Whenever we’re out in nature, we all bring different perspectives and notice different things. 

“It makes this a really valuable experience to gather together,” Ser says.

Dippers and chickadees

It doesn’t take long to see this in action. By the time we’ve been walking for a minute, we’re already learning from each other about the creatures of this urban park. We stop at the footbridge over Rattlesnake Creek, where Ser has seen a pair of American dippers nesting for several years. Ser scans upstream and down, looking for a well-camouflaged, stream-dwelling gray bird with a buzzy call. But the dippers seem to be in another section of the stream today. Ser tells us that they see dippers here year-round. If Rattlesnake Creek freezes during a cold spell, these cold-hardy stream-dwellers will move downstream to the Clark Fork River. Otherwise, they seem to prefer foraging in the smaller streams, such as Rattlesnake Creek. 

Nate Johnson notices a narrow line of tracks across a snow-covered island in the creek. Could these be dipper tracks? It’s a thin trail through the snow, and the prints seem to alternate with each other. The trail is much too narrow for a mink or a muskrat, and the pattern doesn’t look right for a deer mouse or a vole. We can’t be sure, but an American dipper seems like a good guess.

While we’ve been scanning the creek for the elusive dippers, a mixed flock of black-capped chickadees and pygmy nuthatches has been keeping us company, flitting around the trunk of a large cottonwood near the creek. It’s another mixed-species winter flock, something we can expect to see frequently through the rest of the winter. Besides chickadees, nuthatches, kinglets, and woodpeckers, Ser mentions that they sometimes see jays joining these mixed-species groups.

Birds and plants in the cold

The wind is blowing plumes of snow off of the crest of Mount Jumbo above us. In spite of the sun, it’s cold. My toes are starting to complain. The rest of my body is asking me why I didn’t put another coat on this morning. I’m nowhere near the slippery slope towards hypothermia yet, but the morning would have been much more comfortable if I had planned ahead a bit more.

The cheerful calls of the chickadees seem to mock my discomfort. If they’re cold, they aren’t telling me. And even more amazing are the dippers. They plunge and swim through the ice-cold waters of the stream throughout the winter. For the dippers, this penguin plunge is their buffet: caddisflies, mayflies, other aquatic invertebrates, and perhaps even small fish are their year-round foods.

We stop to look at a patch of common snowberries (Symphoricarpos albus) growing next to a young grove of Norway maples (Acer platanoides). This unusual mixture is part of what makes Greenough Park interesting, Ser tells us. 

“It’s a fascinating combination of native species and non-native species,” they say.

Native plants like snowberry, yarrow, and cottonwood mix with garden escapes like Norway maple and European mountain-ash (Sorbus aucuparia). It’s a reflection of how much we’ve changed the landscape, colonizing it with houses, European plants, and pavement. But it also shows us how resilient native plants can be. A half-wild park like Greenough can be a refuge for biodiversity. It’s not pristine – but compared to a lawn or a parking lot, there’s a lot of habitat here.

Snowberries and hawthorns in Greenough Park

Fruits still hang from the snowberries in luminous white clusters. What eats snowberry fruits?

“Not much until they’re desperate,” Ser tells us. They’ve seen pine grosbeaks eating these fruits in January, when there’s not much else to eat. Indeed, this seems to be one of the biggest advantages of snowberry fruits. They may be mealy and mildly toxic to humans – and apparently they’re not especially tasty to birds – but they stay around throughout the cold season. Unlike the fall fruits, like elderberries and chokecherries, snowberries are still here when the cold gets bitter and any calories are important, whether they’re especially tasty or not.

Fall and winter fruits continue to accompany us on our meander through Greenough Park. We stop to look at a snow-capped nest in a hawthorn (Crataegus sp.). It’s conspicuous now that the leaves have died back. A bulky cup woven of grasses, it’s perched high in the hawthorn, close to the main stem. It’s the size of a large orange, almost directly over the busy pedestrian trail. Winter nest identification is a difficult skill, and no one in our group is very experienced with it. But based on the size, construction, and location, we suspect that this nest belonged to a pair of American robins.

The hawthorns in the park seem to have lost their fruits already. Did the birds eat them this fall, or was this just a bad year for hawthorn fruit set? Ser reminds us that, besides fruits, hawthorns offer a variety of other advantages to wildlife. Black-billed magpies commonly build their bulky stick nests among these thorny branches, where they’re well-protected from predators. And northern shrikes may impale their prey – mostly mice and voles – on the thorns.

Red-osier dogwoods and Rocky Mountain maples

Just a few yards from the hawthorn, we take a look at a red-osier dogwood (Cornus sericea), its deep red branches standing out against the snow. Its small, bitter white fruits are gone already. But earlier in the fall, Ser often sees pileated woodpeckers eating them. It’s a comical sight. The bulky, red and black woodpeckers can’t perch upright on the slender dogwood branches, so they tip upside down as they snatch the juicy fruits. And the pileated woodpeckers aren’t alone. Around Helena, I’ve seen white-crowned sparrows, American robins, and black-capped chickadees stocking up on red-osier dogwood fruits during fall migration.

But that season is past now. Half a foot of snow covers the ground, and the dogwood branches are bare. But even in the winter, we can learn to recognize these bushes by the personalities of their branches and buds. Ser points out that the winter red-osier dogwoods can resemble another of our native shrubs, Rocky Mountain maple (Acer glabrum). Both have branches that depart from the stem in opposite pairs, and both can have beautiful, reddish twigs.

So how can we tell these two apart? The buds provide one secret. Red-osier dogwood buds are elongate. Ser describes them like a pair of tiny prayer hands. Rocky Mountain maple buds, on the other hand, are rounder and fatter, protected by more bud scales.

Getting to know the bedrock

We slow down again as we pass by an exposed rock outcrop, jutting out towards the trail. Marilyn and Don Cook admire the rocks and marvel at how they came to be here. 

“My mind stops functioning past a few thousand years,” Ser says. It’s a similar experience for me: the immensity of geologic time is impossible for me to truly comprehend. But even though none of us are geologists, and our understanding is limited, it’s worthwhile to take a look at this outcrop. We notice that the rocks are arranged in rusty orange strata that dip towards the south. 

Later, I look at a geologic map and learn that this outcrop belongs to the Snowslip Formation, a layer of sediments laid down over a thousand million years ago. Tipping rock layers like these are a common sight in the Rocky Mountains. Originally, these rocks were deposited in level layers, the sediments carried off of the eroding mountains. But over time, immense and slow pressures tipped them, angling them southwards, as regional forces faulted and folded the bedrock up into new mountains.

But even without the geologic map – and without the ability to imagine a billion years – we can tell that these rocks are offering a unique habitat for creatures in the present. The south and east faces of this outcrop are bare rock, baked every day by the sun and scoured by rain and gravity. But where the rocks extend northwards in an overhang, where the water drips slowly and the sun doesn’t shine, a miniature garden of mosses and lichens are growing. In the early spring, perhaps the American dippers will venture here, gathering these mosses to build their sheltered nests under the footbridges that cross the creek.

Greenough Park’s waxwings

A soft, high-pitched chorus in the cottonwoods draws our attention away from the rock face. It’s a flock of cedar waxwings, their pale yellow bellies glowing in the morning sun. Ser spots a couple of Bohemian waxwings with them. Once in a while, we can hear the musical trills of the Bohemian waxwings mixing with the softer lisps of the cedars. It’s a different sort of mixed-species winter flock than the chickadees and the nuthatches: these birds are focused on fruits.

Cedar waxwings nest here in the summer, and some of them remain around Missoula through the cold season. They group up in the winter and shift their diet, from mostly insects to almost entirely fruits. The Bohemian waxwings, the larger, grayer cousins of the cedar waxwings, are strictly winter visitors to Montana. They nest in the boreal forest, moving south as the weather gets cold. Like the cedars, now they’re very focused on fruits.

So what are the waxwings doing in the top of this cottonwood, perching among its bare, fruitless branches? We notice a pattern of movement: a few at a time, the waxwings are gliding down from the cottonwood into the undergrowth. At the same time, others are flying back up to this conspicuous perch. Sure enough, as they land again, we can see that the waxwings are carrying bright orange fruits in their beaks. They’re feeding on the European mountain-ashes – one of those garden escapes that is common in Greenough Park. And if the waxwings are any judge, it seems that the mountain-ash fruits are tastier than the snowberries. Presumably, this flock is digesting their meal high up in the cottonwood so that they can watch for sharp-shinned hawks, merlins, and other predators. 

Elderberries and nightshades

Fruits and birds continue to accompany us as we wander through the park. We stop to look at the elderberries (Sambucus cerulea). The transition from fall to winter happened so fast this year that we can still find clusters of their powdery-blue fruits, drooping in the cold. Normally, the birds clean up the elderberries before winter arrives.

We pay attention to the hollow, pithy elderberry stems. They break off easily, giving these shrubs a rather disheveled appearance. But though they may not look very tidy, the elderberry stems are important. While many of our native bees nest in the ground, an important assortment spend most of their lives in twigs just like these. For example, bees in the genus Ceratina may overwinter in elderberry stems, hidden from sight, waiting quietly for spring to arrive.

We can still hear the waxwings trilling and lisping as they feed on the nearby mountain-ash fruits. A black-capped chickadee flits past us, probing busily for insects and spiders among the shriveled brown alder leaves that still hang from the branches. A song sparrow gives its chimp call from the thicket near us.

A slender, woody vine droops with shiny clusters of juicy red fruits near the trail. What is this? It’s bittersweet nightshade (Solanum dulcamara), a relative of tomatoes. Native to Europe and parts of Asia and northern Africa, it’s mildly toxic to humans. From what we’re seeing today, the birds don’t seem very interested in it, either. But as we’ve already seen, the birds’ interest in different fruits can change greatly through the season. Near Helena, I’ve seen white-crowned sparrows eating nightshade berries in the fall. And Ser thinks they remember seeing song sparrows eating these fruits, as well.

Hints of mammals

Snowberries, mountain-ashes, red-osier dogwoods, nightshades – could there possibly be more types of fruit in Greenough Park? Then we pass by a small apple tree hanging over the trail. Yes, that’s right – a domestic apple in this semi-wild park. How did it get here? Did a bird plant it? A bear? A person? 

In any case, no fruits are left on it now. Some branches are broken out of the top, and we can see a series of deep scratches gouged in the smooth bark. 

We debate who the culprit might be. Could it be a raccoon? But we agree that the accumulation of signs – fruits gone, branches broken, and heavy claw marks – seems to point towards a bear.

The claw marks in the tree are another sign that far more is happening in this park than we’re likely to see in one morning. In fact, it’s likely that each day we’re here will bring us different stories.

Alysha Goheen lives near Greenough Park and comes here almost daily. Recently, she tells us, she was excited to see a pair of raccoons traveling along Rattlesnake Creek during the daylight. She’s seen raccoons here before – including, on one memorable night, a female with eight kits – but to see them during the day is something unusual.

“It’s really nice to be able to come out here daily throughout the season,” Alysha tells me.

Learning the stories of Greenough park

Today, we’ve seen neither raccoons nor their tracks. It seems that they’ve stayed denned up since last night’s fresh snowfall. Alysha’s story of the raccoon is yet another illustration of the benefits of a naturalist saunter like this. All of us have developed a more thorough connection with this park today because of each other’s perspectives and stories. From Alysha, we’ve learned of the neighborhood raccoons and their habits. Ser has brought us the stories of the American dippers and a thorough appreciation for the park’s diversity of fruiting shrubs and the creatures they support. Marilyn and Don have reminded us to wonder at the unfathomable, billion-year-old stories of the rocks we stand on. And Nate has shown us what may well be dipper tracks along the stream.

Even on a cold, wintry morning, the stories we can find when we saunter outside are endless. Next time, I’ll make sure to dress a bit more warmly. But although my fingers and toes are slightly stiff, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this morning. Today I’ve gotten to connect a little bit more with the place where I’m living. I’ve made some new friends and gotten to see their passion and curiosity as, together, we celebrate the beginning of winter in Missoula. Next month, I hope to be back. What stories will we encounter in December? Maybe I’ll see you there.

Further reading

Lonn, J.D., McDonald, C., Sears, J.W., & Smith, L.N. (2010). Geologic map of the Missoula East 30′ x 60′ quadrangle, western Montana. Montana Bureau of Mines and Geology Open-File Report 593, 2 sheets, scale 1:100,000. Retrieved from https://mbmg.mtech.edu/mbmgcat/public/ListCitation.asp?pub_id=31350&

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